blood ate from his body wrapped in radiation. his tongue embrace the nectar that his mouth spills out. a hummingbird hovers above his lips—still nothing new. still the body caves onto itself. still there are little whispers to find the sick dying, & sick are dying. worms detect his eyes; sparrows discover the worms. he discerns things landing on his cheekbones. a mother incubates her eggs inside his brain & they are to hatch as he is to die.
doktor you fall in love with my symptoms dance with me like a scalpel across the floor we make incisions to open the boards worms & weeds & rot scour beneath where inlies my heart, a wet dark sack. doktor my iron lungs transfer the chemical to shrink my already shrunken brain: you extract my sickness, a cesarean, out my nasal cavity, to study the devil, to secure in your hand a power. doktor you leave my body to cure or to cure.
process & finale
i masturbate today as you reach outside me & we break & i scream & you taste me as rigorous— i wash your mouth— i grew a child in a foreign coffin—beating, skin marked the stretching as trenches: a war of flesh lashed out against the body. i hold you & we coil together. our exterior molts & the soft under tissue fuses & hardens again.
john compton (he/him) is a gay poet who lives with his husband josh and their dogs and cats. he is the poet with 14 published chapbooks/books, with the latest book: the castration of a minor god (Ghost City Press; december 2022) and next chapbook: melancholy arcadia (Harbor Editions; may 2024)